


We need to talk about that kiss

by ponyponynay



Category: Actor RPF, Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Best Friends, Childhood Friends, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 12:29:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9271685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponyponynay/pseuds/ponyponynay
Summary: Chris hates it when Tom brings home a "friend."





	

Chris started to feel queasy after Tom’s mum phoned him the night before.

 

She told him Tom was coming into town and bringing a “friend.” Chris didn’t know what that meant, but maybe he did, too. At their age, coming home with a “friend” meant only one thing: Tom was going to introduce someone to his family -- someone he might marry, Chris reckoned. But they’d never talked about that before, which is strange, considering they’ve been best mates for what seems like forever. Telling your best mate about having a significant other just seems like something that should be in the best mates contract or something.

 

Tom’s mum invited Chris to dinner for when Tom and his “friend” were in town. Obviously, Chris had said yes. Every time Tom returned to their hometown, where Chris had remained, from London, Chris would go and have dinner with him and his family. He’d never missed a single time. And after dinner, the pair would go pub crawling and drown themselves in too many pints. But there was never a “friend” accompanying Tom on his visits home before. Chris just felt weird about that.

 

First of all, Tom had always phoned him directly when he was coming into town. Tom’s mum routinely phoned Chris, too, to invite him to family functions -- with or without Tom -- or because she’d found great sales for salmon at the local fish market and she just knows salmon is Chris’s favourite. But Tom always let him know first. It was weird that he didn’t this time. Maybe he still will phone soon, Chris thought. But maybe not.

 

It was especially strange to him that Chris had no idea who this “friend” was nor did he understand why he felt so offended by the fact that Tom’s “friend” was coming, as though Tom was not allowed to have any other friends than Chris. The thought was irrational and Chris knew that. He didn’t know for a fact that this “friend” was anything more than just, you know, a friend.

 

So when Chris showed up to dinner at Tom’s parents’ house in Spinningfields that Friday night, he was especially startled to see that Tom’s “friend” was a tall and built man, who kept putting his hands on Tom’s waist and whispered in his ear a lot. The man’s name was Ben and Chris thought that was such a stupid name. Chris squeezed Ben’s hand quite menacingly as they were introduced.

 

“I have something to tell you,” Tom announced at the dinner table later.

 

Everyone sort of knew what he was going to say  before he said it. He didn’t really need to actually make the announcement for the family to anticipate (correctly) what it was. The people who knew Tom knew him well and though, for some odd reason, Tom had never come out to the family before, it was sort of an unspoken truth that he liked men and had always liked men. They weren’t not talking about it because of any sort of fear, but merely because they weren’t treating it any differently than if Tom liked girls or both.

 

Chris knew too, even though Tom never came out to him either (this also seemed like violation of best mates contract). But then again, best mates didn’t always have to tell each other things to know what was going on. They were so connected to each other that they could sense how each other was feeling from miles away. But that isn’t to say they hadn’t grown apart in the seven years Tom had been living in London. They did grow apart. A lot.

 

They really were an odd couple to begin with. It was a wonder to all how Chris and Tom were so close. Chris, who moved to Manchester from Melbourne, Australia, during his ninth year of school, was always a burly lad who was especially talented in sports, interested in girls with big arses and ate enough food for six people (easily). Tom, on the other hand, was a flamboyant socialite with dyed black hair and tight jeans. The lankier teen preferred to stay in bed and read books, or dance under the moonlight like he was on drugs (sometimes he was), while Chris liked to go punch and break things, wrestle his friends and play violent video games like Grand Theft Auto.

 

Nevertheless, they’d been joined at the hip ever since they met on Chris’s first day at the lunch line. They bonded over hating potatoes, oddly enough. And for years, until Tom moved away to attend a performing arts school in London, they spent every single day together, not always doing anything special and sometimes merely enjoying each other’s company.

 

Chris knows life happens. So he understood when Tom decided to go off to London and leave him behind. Chris could have come with, and Tom asked if he’d wanted to, but what was he going to do there? He wasn’t interested in going to uni, nor did he particularly want to live in a place with so many people. Now, Chris worked for a supermarket driving trucks and hauling merchandise, and it suited him just fine.

 

He wouldn’t get along with Tom’s new artistic and fashionable friends anyway. Chris knew literally nothing about art, or dance, or fashion. He certainly wouldn’t get along with this Ben bloke, who seemed way too snobby and put together for Chris’s taste.

 

For the first two years after Tom moved, Tom visited almost weekly. It almost felt like Tom never moved away because he visited so frequently. He’d at least show for one night to watch a film with Chris or just hang out for no particular reason. Tom liked his new friends at dance school but starting adulthood without Chris just seemed like a stupid idea to him -- Chris was the one who knew all the fun anyway.

 

Then in the next few years, Tom really started finding his own people in London; the artsy types that danced and performed things like slam poetry. The visits got less and less frequent, naturally. Chris only got to spend time with Tom a handful of times within the last two years.

 

And now here they were, sitting on opposite ends of the dinner table, present in the same room but not necessarily sharing any conversation. Chris couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen Tom, actually. It was probably last year, even.

 

When Tom’s big announcement (“I’m homosexual”) hit, nobody -- not his parents nor his two sisters -- appeared surprised. Everyone kept on shoveling food into their mouths as they looked at Tom with blank looks that basically said, “Oh yeah?”

 

“Tom, if you thought you were keeping a secret… Well, you weren’t,” Emma, Tom’s sister, said.

 

There wasn’t any fluffy ‘Oh we love you for who you are’ comments. It was as though everyone had known for so long that they didn’t need to bother. But his mum did say, “Tom, dear, you were wearing tutus at three years old and dancing to Madonna” in a matter-of-fact way. Tom seemed extremely relieved at the non-reactions of his family members, though Chris was quietly stewing in the corner, trying his best not to stab his dinner too hard with his fork.

 

“So Ben, you and Tom...errr…” Chris mumbled, while still chewing. Ben looked at Chris as though he was looking at an untamed beast, as he succinctly replied, “Yes.”

 

Chris already hated everything about this guy. The way he said “yes” was so condescending, not to mention his perfectly tucked in shirt and perfectly parted hair and his perfect fucking face. He didn’t like that Ben grabbed a napkin for Tom without being asked to and kept asking Tom how he was doing. He also didn’t like how Tom kept wearing this faint smile every time he made eye contact with Ben.

 

“Ben is the director of my dance company. It’s a shame he went into administration, though. He’s such a brilliant dancer,” Tom said, as he nudged Ben.  

“Oh stop, Tom,” Ben said. Everyone had these weird enamored and impressed looks on their faces. Chris didn’t like that either. He wasn’t that impressed. Actually, he wasn’t impressed at all. Chris scoffed.

 

For the rest of dinner, Tom’s parents were hounding Ben with questions about where he lives (in a schmancy loft in London with view of the Thames), what his parents do for a living (mother stays at home while father is an Earl of something or rather), how many siblings he has (a brother who is an attorney and a sister who teaches at Oxford), where he went to school (The Dragon School, then Conservatoire for Dance and Drama) and what he plans to do in the next five years (settle down and buy his third vacation home, he said. Maybe even get a dog.).

 

Chris just wanted to gag at all of that. Actually, he was pretty certain he tasted a bit of vomit in his mouth. He couldn’t believe how sleazy and straight-laced this guy was.

 

And then Chris just started feeling bad. He’s from a modest family. They’ve struggled, too, but Chris, his two brothers and parents were happy for the most part. His father got a job with a farm equipment company based in England and that’s how they got here. Mum took good care of the kids and worked at a local market three days a week. Luke, the oldest, worked in human resources at a company in town and Liam was at uni.

 

Chris didn’t even know where The Dragon School was. He never really aspired for further education, though he almost got a scholarship to play rugby in uni until he tore a knee ligament. He was fine with his trucking job; it gave him lots of time off to go rock-climbing and stuff. He was generally satisfied with himself, but for some reason, he just felt so worthless at that dinner table.

 

“I’m taking off,” Chris announced as he picked up after himself.

“Already?” Tom asked, a bit startled. “We’re still going to the pub, yeah?”

“No. I’m not feeling too well, actually. I’ll catch you next time, probably,” Chris replied.

 

There was definitely something weird going on, Tom thought. Chris was always down for a pint or ten. Tom was actually looking forward to catching up. But Tom did sense that Chris was in a rather foul mood. They hadn’t kept in very close touch recently, so he couldn’t guess what could be troubling Chris.

 

As Chris hugged everyone, except for Ben, whose hand he shook too threateningly again and headed out the door, Tom followed and shut the door behind them.

 

“You alright, mate?” Tom asked. Chris nodded, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he turned around and swiftly got in his pickup truck without allowing Tom to say another word. Then Tom instinctively knew Chris was upset with him, though he didn’t quite understand what he’d done to make him so. Was it because he came out? No way, Tom thought. He couldn’t possibly get himself to think of Chris as homophobic. In fact, he knew Chris wasn’t like that.

 

After Chris awkwardly left the house, which everyone seemed to notice, Tom was helping with dishes alongside his sister, Sarah. Then Sarah told him, “You’re a fucking dimwit, you know that?” Startled, Tom asked why and she just said, “You just are, Tom.”

 

Then Tom just felt like shit. He’d somehow upset Chris. Was it because he didn’t phone before showing up in town? But Chris wasn’t petty like that. No, not his Chris. Tom’d just been really busy -- they just finished a big production at the Royal Albert Hall and it was sort of a big deal. He was interviewed by the fucking Guardian! He was going to tell Chris all about it. The visit wasn’t that well planned and kind of done on a whim. He counted on his mum to keep Chris informed and obviously, she did.

 

No matter what upset Chris, Tom hated that he wasn’t going to spend any time with Chris this time. Chris would never know how much Tom cherished the few hours they’d get to spend together once or twice a year, how much Tom loved it when his thigh would touch Chris’s as they sat together and how many times he’d hoped for Chris to get drunk enough to hold his hand or cup Tom’s face with his big hand.

 

More importantly, Chris would never know how much Tom was in love with him. He would never know that Tom was madly in love with him since the first time they met and Chris was the reason Tom’s never had a boyfriend until now because he was stupid enough to hope that he and Chris would be together someday. But that would be a miracle, literally. As far as Tom knew, Chris didn’t swing that direction.

 

As soon as Chris arrived at his flat, he sank into his couch with a bottle of something stiff in his hand. “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. Tom looked like a beat-up puppy when Chris left. He hated making Tom feel bad. His face looked so much prettier when he smiled, Chris thought. In fact when Tom would smile, Chris always felt like his heart was going to melt and sink into the earth…

 

He frowned at his own cheesy thoughts, as though that was going to somehow allow him to retract what he’s already thought. He felt like shit and he made Tom feel like shit, though he was pretty certain Tom would have a great time anyway with that fuckboy of his. Would they sleep in Tom’s childhood bed? Chris and Tom had spent so much time on that bed, reading comic books, watching something stupid or just wrestling each other.

 

Then Chris just felt angry and bitter. Did they fuck yet? They probably did. Or most certainly. Of course, they fucked. He imagined Ben’s fingers running up and down Tom’s torso and felt his blood pressure rise abruptly.

 

Feeling like breaking something or punching someone (possibly Ben) in the mouth until they bled, Chris decided to go to bed. That was probably for the better. That way, he could shut his thoughts out and also not end up behind bars for having beat someone up to a bloody pulp.

 

Tom tried to phone Chris in the coming weeks. He actually tried about 120398123 times unsuccessfully, though that is clearly an exaggeration. Tom certainly felt like he tried that many times. He’d sent Chris texts, left voicemails and still heard nothing back. It was obvious at that point: Chris really was mad at him, and Tom had no clue why.

 

In reality, Tom had called only four times in three weeks. Three out of the four times, Chris legitimately could not answer. He was on a job, delivering some stuff to the south. Company policy is to not use phones when he drives. But the one time he intentionally ignored Tom, Chris didn’t answer because he didn’t know what to say. He also didn’t text back because he didn’t know what to text, either.

 

When Chris finally called back three days after Tom’s last missed phone call, Chris was driving toward London on a job and finally decided that whatever weird feeling he was feeling was not worth losing his best mate over. Just because Tom now had a handsome boyfriend with lots of money and possibly in line to the throne, it didn’t mean someone like Chris (though Chris felt stupid about referring to himself as that) couldn’t be friends with him. Tom may be a prolific dancer, making a name in that world and not be able to spare that much to his old mate who lives at home and drives a truck. But he was still Chris’s best mate.

 

Almost as soon as Chris pushed the call button, Tom answered. “Why the fuck haven’t you been answering?” Tom yelled at Chris without even saying hello first.

 

“Sorry, mate,” Chris said.

 

Chris was standing outside at a petrol station, with his truck parked in a corner and holding a cheap convenience store coffee in his hand. He was about half hour north of London.

 

“Well, then you should have phoned back sooner,” Tom said. He proceeded to scold Chris for three more minutes, spewing out whatever words he could think of to express his deep disdain at Chris’s lack of contact.

 

When Tom finally stopped to breathe, Chris got his words in. “Listen, I’m close to London. How about I swing by you?” And it was as though Tom was bipolar, because his mood quickly shifted from anger to extreme joy when Chris said that. Then he went on and on about how it would be just like the old days; they can cuddle as they watch a stupid film and get fucked up on bottom-of-the-barrel whiskey that tastes like jet fuel, or they could go to this new pub that’s become Tom’s favourite of late. What did Chris want for dinner? Tom could cook, or there’s this great Indian place near his flat that he eats at like four times a week. Would Chris stay the night? He should, because Tom just got a king size bed all to himself…

 

Without thinking much about all the things Tom was saying, Chris smiled and just went, “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

 

Chris arrived in Tom’s London neighborhood just before dinnertime and they indeed went to the Indian place that Tom really liked. Chris liked it, too. And it really felt like nothing awkward had happened between them, though both of them were thinking about it in the back of their heads. They ate, and trotted on to a pub, where in the first five minutes, they were ordering the second round of beer.

 

“I want to go dancing,” Tom said, as he gulped down his second pint.

“You dance for a living. You really want to go dancing in your spare time?” Chris asked.

“I enjoy and love dancing very thoroughly, Mr. Hemsworth,” Tom said, laughing and casually putting his hand on Chris’s thigh. He couldn’t help but enjoy feeling the lumps of Chris’s muscle brushing up against his palm.

 

Chris doesn’t dance. He understands how it can be fun. He likes watching Tom do it. Tom is so graceful when he dances. It’s as though his body was made to dance. It creates the most beautiful lines that Chris had ever seen. In school, Tom would insist on dancing everywhere -- at the park, in the house or in the middle of the school lawn. Chris would just watch. He never joined in. The only time he did -- it was at a night club -- some girl told him he looked like he was having a seizure. He never tried again after that. He just wasn’t the dancing type. He’d gladly join a mosh pit, though.

 

After a couple pints and two shots too many, Tom and Chris were stumbling home when Tom broke out dancing in a dark alleyway, grabbing at Chris’s arm, begging him to join in. “Since you won’t go dancing with me, I guess I’ll just have to dance here.” Chris let Tom drag him a bit and pretended to shake his arms. They both cracked up laughing.

 

“Here. It’s not that hard,” Tom said, as he grabbed Chris’s arms and placed them around his own waist. “How do you get girls to go home with you if you don’t dance?”

“I don’t need to dance to do that,” Chris said, laughing.

“Oh, is that so?”

 

Already too drunk, Chris let his body be shaken side to side at Tom’s will. They danced slowly, but with rhythm and Tom giggled the whole time. And Chris doesn’t know why or how it happened, but moments later, he found himself shoving Tom against a brick wall and kissing him. At the first touch of lips, Tom began reciprocating the fervor and the pair spent the next minute and a half hungrily gnawing and licking at each other, each contact loaded with years of want.

 

That is, until a cold breeze hit and Chris suddenly felt sober.

 

When lips came apart, Chris looked at Tom with puzzled eyes and Tom at Chris with want still. Then Chris mumbled, “I shouldn’t have done that,” and Tom also became puzzled. Without saying anything else, Chris hurriedly turned around and started running, leaving Tom standing there, confused and hurt.

 

What the fuck just happened? Tom thought to himself.

 

Chris went back on the road and immediately began driving north in the dark. He was still probably too drunk to drive, but he couldn’t stay with Tom. Not after that. He was trying to reconcile his own feelings. Why did he do that for? He can’t think of any other reason than that he wanted to. Then a fierce battle began inside his head over whether he loved Tom in that way or he was experiencing an alcohol-induced temporary episode of some psychological condition or another.

 

He spent the next hour going back and forth, fighting with himself about it. Then he convinced himself that there was nothing wrong with loving Tom in that way, except for the fact that if it doesn’t work out, their years of friendship would also diminish. What if this was a fleeting feeling, a temporary curiosity, even, that would dissipate with time? Then he’d have wasted away the best friendship he’d had in his life. Tom was simply too precious to gamble with. He can’t lose Tom. He’d die if he ever did, probably.

 

Chris stopped for petrol an hour later. Dawn was arriving by then. It was cold as fuck and hunger kicked in, but he was too preoccupied with thoughts to actually think to buy something to eat. Then he began worrying about Tom. Was he crying? Did he go home okay? Was he feeling alright? Was he just as confused as Chris was?

 

Did Tom love him too?

 

That questioned made Chris ache for about a week and a half. He couldn’t sleep; he was distracted while he drove for work. He remembered Tom kissing back and rather passionately, too. There could be a chance that Tom loved Chris, too, but now Tom was with someone. Chris kept coming back to thinking he shouldn’t have kissed Tom. He felt like he’d gone and fucked it all up and now Tom was never going to see him again.

 

The voices inside his head -- all his own -- were so jumbled Chris couldn’t think straight. He resented that Tom never phoned, but it wasn’t like he had phoned Tom. He wanted so desperately to hold him and say he was sorry. For everything. He really had gone and fucked it all up.

 

Then Chris just couldn’t handle it anymore. So he was outside that same petrol station, half hour north of London, standing up against his personal pickup truck with the phone in his hand. This time, he wasn’t on a job; he took the week off to go see Tom. Hopefully Tom would even agree to meet after what happened, though.

 

Tom answered after the third ring, but didn’t say hello. Chris cleared his throat as an indication that he hadn’t hung up, but he couldn’t quite find the right words to say.

 

After about 15 seconds, Chris finally broke the silence. “We need to… We need to talk.”

“About what?” Tom asked quite sharply. He was clearly annoyed or upset, or both.

“About… We need to… We need to talk about,” Chris fumbled spectacularly.

 

“The kiss?” Tom blurted out.

“Yeah. That,” Chris said, sighing loudly.

 

There was another few seconds of silence. Neither knew what to say. Chris was cycling through words. At this point, he’d give anything Tom wants. If Tom wants to forget about it all, he’d go along with that. If he wants Chris to fuck off forever, he would do that too, though very reluctantly and with lots of heartache. He wants to communicate that to Tom but instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Are you still with that guy?” What a fucking loser, Chris thinks of himself.

 

“What guy?” Tom asks. “Ben?”

“Yeah.”

 

Chris hears Tom laugh exasperatedly from the other end. “We dated for like a month. It wasn’t even that serious. He’s fucking some other dancer now,” Tom said.

 

“Then why did you bring him home?” Chris asked and the tone had a hint of resentment. He just had to ask because he still felt angst about seeing Ben with Tom.

“For fuck’s sake, Chris. I was coming out to my parents. I needed some fucking moral support,” Tom replied, exasperation embedded in every syllable.

 

Then came more silence, save for a few sighs on both ends. The frustration in miscommunication was obvious. Neither was expressing themselves very well. And forever (or what seemed like it) later, Chris finally opened his mouth again to say, “I’m coming over.” He hung up before Tom could consent, or reject.

 

To tell the truth, Chris couldn’t handle rejection at this point in time.

 

Chris then drove so fucking fast that when he arrived outside Tom’s flat, he was actually surprised he hadn’t been stopped by police. He stood outside of Tom’s flat with his fist ready to pound on the door, but his mind was nowhere near ready to do that. He wasn’t prepared for what’s to come, not that he knew what’s to come. But was he ever going to be prepared? He wasn’t sure. Probably not, he thought. But he was here and whatever was going to happen was going to happen. And fuck it all.

 

“I can hear you breathing,” Chris heard Tom say from the other side of the door. Then his busy thoughts shut themselves out as the door flung open quite violently.

 

Chris just lost it when Tom revealed himself from behind the door. He charged at Tom, grabbed his face and smashed his lips into Tom’s. They violently kissed each other for a minute or so (Tom did feel like Chris was going to eat his face), and when their lips finally parted, Tom looked up with skeptical eyes and said, “Are you going to run again?”

 

Chris didn’t reply. Instead, he rammed his mouth onto Tom’s once again, grabbing Tom by the waist and shoving him toward the sofa. Tom flailed and landed bottoms first on the sofa.

 

Their bodies naturally found their places in the tangled mess they were in. Chris wedged his knees in between Tom’s and shed his jacket as he positioned himself on top of Tom. He never let Tom’s lips get away for more than a few seconds. Chris was determined to kiss every part of Tom that he’d wanted to kiss and moved his lips south to gnaw at Tom’s neck, which Chris had always found so beautiful. His hands wandered all over Tom’s torso as he did that.

 

When Chris’s hands wandered far enough to reach Tom’s zippers, Tom grabbed his wrist forcefully. “Bed,” he told Chris.

 

Chris did as told. All the years he’d played rugby are finally paying off, demonstrated by the ease with which he cradled Tom and lifted him up from the sofa. Tom wrapped his long and lean legs around Chris, who headed straight for Tom’s bedroom.

 

By the time they reached the bed, neither one was wearing much clothing. They’d left a trail of clothing items behind them. Chris had just socks on, while Tom was only wearing a thin t-shirt (barely), which was rolled up above his nipples.

 

Chris began doing everything he knew how to do to please someone physically. He sucked on Tom’s earlobes, drawing light, longing pants from the dark-haired man. He then moved on to gnaw at his nipples. Tom’s hands busily caressed Chris’s torso and back and Chris’s body jerked forward, rubbing their penises together, every time Tom’s fingernails moved across. Both had been hard since they began petting each other on the sofa. What happens next seemed obvious: They were going to have sex.

 

Except Chris didn’t really know how. Not with a man. He knew that between men, intercourse is performed anally. He’d seen some gay porn before. But he didn’t know much beyond that. The only thing he knew was how much he wanted to ram his cock inside of Tom. He didn’t imagine he could just ram it in, though.

 

Sensing Chris’s hesitation, Tom opened his eyes, which he closed while he allowed himself to soak in Chris’s touches. “Here, Chris,” Tom said as he pointed toward the nightstand. Inside the nightstand drawer, Chris found a pack of condoms and a bottle of strawberry-flavored lube. He wondered why the lube had to have a flavor.

 

Minutes later, he found out why. Tom had directed him to slather Tom’s anus with the lube and when he did, Tom led Chris’s fingers to it. Holding Chris’s index finger with his hand, Tom began a gentle caressing motion. When Chris got the hang of it, Tom jerked his head backward and screamed, “I want your mouth.” So Chris did it. He stuck his tongue out and kissed Tom’s hole gently, then more fervently. Tom’s head jerked back as he screamed, placing his right hand on top of Chris’s bobbing head. A sweet strawberry taste lingered at the tip of Chris’s tongue as he continued to love on Tom’s entrance. Oh yeah, that’s why it has a flavor, he thought.

 

“Ahhh, Chris…. I want to fuck,” Tom said between breaths.

 

That threw Chris over the edge and he spent the next two minutes thoroughly fucking Tom with his fingers -- at one point, almost shoving parts of his knuckles in. Tom was wet and screaming, and at times, Chris wasn’t sure if Tom was screaming because it was painful or because he liked it. Chris’s cock was about to blow at the mere sight of Tom being pleasured by his fingers. He loved the way Tom’s back bent when he pressed in hard. But he waited patiently. He wanted Tom to tell him what he wanted.

 

“Fuck me,” Tom ordered. “With your cock.”

 

At that, without a second of hesitation, Chris set himself in motion, with his left hand pushing down on Tom’s knee. He rolled the condom up his cock and aimed his tip at Tom’s oiled up hole. It was like a perfectly fitting puzzle after that. The blond’s cock slid in with ease, and Tom’s body grew tense for a moment at the sensation of being filled so fully, but soon got caught up in a steady and quick rhythm that manifested itself through the creaking sound of the bed.

 

Chris held on tightly as he fucked into Tom. “Baby…” he muttered mindlessly as he increased his speed. And Tom loved that. Never in a million years did he ever think Chris would call him “baby.” So he looked up at Chris and demanded to be kissed. Chris obliged.

 

Chris fucked him sideways, standing up and from behind as Tom cried out. He sucked Tom’s cock, kissed him and fucked him again with Tom straddling him from above.

 

Chris was always good at physical activities. It was natural for him somehow. He’s got such good endurance, Tom thought. Chris had been the captain of the rugby team in school, an ace football player on the junior club team and his hobbies included rock climbing, skiing, swimming, wrestling…all things having to do with moving his body a lot and heightening his heart rate. Of course Chris was good at sex, Tom couldn’t help but think.

 

Tom couldn’t take it anymore when Chris pushed his legs down toward the bed and began thrusting up. The tip of Chris’s cock rubbed against a sweet spot that gave Tom chills and made him shout obscenities. And it happened again and again, and Tom didn’t get a chance to warn Chris before he began screaming and spilling like he’d never done before. At the sight of that, Chris felt his cock get snug inside the condom with his semen almost bursting through.

 

Both were panting harshly as they lay next to each other, staring at the ceiling. Chris felt Tom’s arm up against his and he liked that. He felt Tom’s body jiggle a bit as Tom began to giggle. He’d just had the best shag of his life. And it was with his best mate, Chris Hemsworth.

 

“I love you,” Chris said in a rather dry but totally unvarnished way. That took the giggle right out of Tom’s mouth. Tom turned his head to move his gaze from the ceiling to the side of Chris’s face. Then he looked back at the ceiling and also dryly, said, “Well, I’ve loved you for 11 years, actually.”

 

“Huh?” Chris made a noise. “What do you mean?”

“Christopher, I’ve been in love with you since I met you, you fucking twat,” Tom said, playfully nudging Chris.

“When were you going to tell me?” Chris asked, half giggling.

“Never,” Tom replied, sounding relieved that reality turned out differently than that.

 

It all moved so quickly after that. There was a tremendous sense of relief with Tom and Chris -- the kind of relief you feel when rain visits the desert. The next thing you know, Chris is driving down to London every other week and they fucked like beasts each time, like neither of them have ever experienced before. And Tom came home every time he had a break longer than a few days from touring and performing. Tom would come home to eat dinner with mum, but stay with Chris at night.

 

That wasn’t so strange to the Hiddlestons, until they began to notice that Tom was spending every single night in town at Chris’s and found Tom constantly sitting on Chris’s lap or pecking each other on the lips when they thought no one was watching (someone was watching). Some of the family members caught on earlier than others, but soon, everyone knew what was going on.

 

“About time,” Sarah said at dinner one night. And everyone else just sort of nodded.

 

In three months, Chris was looking for jobs in London. Luckily, his company was willing for him to transfer and work from its bureau in London. In the fifth month, Chris moved into Tom’s flat and began sharing the king size bed.

 

On the day entering the sixth month, Chris was at the Hiddleston’s table again, and Tom had yet again announced, “I have something to tell you.”

 

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” Emma asked, not sounding at all like she was actually curious. Mum and dad giggled and Sarah stabbed the yorkshire pudding with force, rolling her eyes. Chris and Tom were holding hands beneath the table, sort of terrified that maybe his family didn’t approve, since they were friends for so long. The day before, they’d announced their relationship to Chris’s parents, who, in a ridiculously normal and nonchalant way, congratulated them. Tom took a gulp of his spit before replying, “Chris and I are together.”

 

“Yeah?” Emma asked again, still not sounding so curious.

“Yeah. Like, together together,” Tom said.

“Like boyfriend-together?” she asked again. Tom wanted to smack her.

“Yeah. Like that.”

“Like, you-have-sex-with-him-together?” she asked, naughtily.

“Emma!” Tom did end up smacking her on the head, though playfullyt. Taking his reaction as an affirmative, Emma said, “Good. I was hoping you two would just do it already.”

 

At Emma’s comment, everyone, as though they’d planned it, bursted laughing at the same time, with the exception of Chris, who quietly nodded with a faint smile, thinking, ‘Yeah. Me too.’

 

 

 

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End file.
